


Layout

by threeplusfire



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, Sex Toys, gymnastics AU, shameless comfort fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lots of comfort, pretty boys and sports. An AU about gymnast!Smith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layout

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that came out of discussing aesthetically pleasing AU ideas. Basically an excuse to watch all the videos of my favorite male gymnast, Alexei Nemov, perform with unbeatable grace and beauty. Also an excuse to look at very expensive sex toys like Lelo's Loki massage device, and looking at suburban real estate listings for the perfect house with a pool. This is just a feel good, happy thing.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tons of background information contained in my chat fic with Bee.](http://threeplusfire.tumblr.com/post/137448224671/gymnastau-chat-fic)

Smith’s breath left his lungs as he swung round the bar, lifting himself high into the air. He strained to point his toes, to keep his legs straight and parallel to the bars. Each second counted off in his head, he waited for the moment to unfold himself and extend his legs up to the ceiling. His fingers tightened on the bar, chalk and sweat staining the tape wrapped around his wrists. The bar rattled as he pushed off, a single rotation. Then again, flipping up and over to land on the mat with a solid thump. Smith bent his knees, catching the shock of it and resisting the urge to step forward. His balance held, and he straightened up with a grin.

“Good job, Smiffy.” From the sideline, his coach of the past two and a half years watched him with a critical eye. They were preparing for Nationals in a few months, running Smith’s routines almost every day.

“Stuck the landing,” Smith bragged, bowed to imaginary judges with a little flourish.

“You sure did.” Sips thoughtfully looked Smith over. “Less wobbling this time. You’ve gotten a lot better at your transitions.”

Smith preened under the praise, wiping the back of his hand over his face. Sweat plastered a few loose hairs to his forehead. 

“Alright, toes.” Sips snapped his fingers. Smith shook out his shoulders, took a deep breath and bent forward until his fingers touched the mat beside his feet.

“Stretch your legs, roll ups, and hit the showers.” Smith watched Sips walk towards the offices upside down as he stretched, feeling his heartbeat slow back to normal. He straightened up slowly, lifting his arms overhead. Across the gym, a group of kids lined up for an afternoon class taught by coach Richards. She was teaching them cartwheels, cheerfully helping them tip over with their feet pointed towards the ceiling. Her laughter carried, bright and boisterous. Smith watched them as he sank down to curl into ball balanced on his tailbone. He wasn’t assigned to help out with any of the evening classes, and he was looking forward to going home.

 

* * *

 

In the showers, Smith closed his eyes under the stinging spray. The gym showers always felt like bathing under a fire hose, the water pressure close to painful. Today it felt good, pounding at him like a meat tenderizer. His arms hung limp at his sides, feeling almost too heavy to lift. The leftover residue of the tape was sticky, and hard to scrub away even now that he had Pressing his forehead against the slick tile, Smith absently picked at it while the water continued to run. His toes curled against the floor.

 

* * *

 

“How you feeling?” Sips asked, pushing the door open to the late afternoon sunlight. He waved at coach Rutherford, who stood with her arms crossed while her students practiced their beam work. She nodded seriously at him. Past her, coach Richards helped a girl do a backbend.

“Starving. Tired.” Smith yawned for effect.  

“You can’t be starving, I saw you eat lunch,” Sips scoffed. They walked towards Sips’ car. Smith slung his gym bag over one shoulder, scuffing along in a faded pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt and a hoodie. Sips still wore his usual sweat pants and fluorescent nylon jacket.

“And then you made me do stretches, and more ab work, and then run my routines for an hour.” Smith mock complained, falling easily into their well worn pattern of sparring. “So now I’m starving all over again.”

Sips chuckled as unlocked his car. Smith slung his bag into the back seat before folding his long limbs into the front. They weren’t too far from home. The best gym in the state was here, in the quiet suburbs of the city, with their wide lanes shaded by big oak trees. One of the top gyms in the country now, with all the staff former champions and a roster of top notch athletes passing through their doors. Retiring here had been one of the smartest things he’d ever done, Sips reflected. He slipped on his sunglasses and squinted against the light. 

“Come on, we’ll pick up some food and watch a movie.” Sips spoke casually, watching the traffic. He missed the spark in Smith’s eyes, and the way he leaned closer.

“Can we get Japanese?”

“Sure.” 

Smith stretched his arms forward, wiggling his fingers with a happy sigh. The passenger seat of Sips’ car was permanently pushed as far back as it could go, so his knees didn’t bang into the dashboard. He grabbed the sunglasses tucked into the console and slipped them on, fingers tapping away to the radio.

 

* * *

 

Sips owned a spacious suburban house, conveniently close to a number of excellent take out restaurants. Smith set out their udon and tempura on the coffee table while Sips found clean glasses for his beer, and Smith’s tea. He settled himself down on the sofa with a groan. Smith passed him containers from his spot, cross legged on the carpet near Sips’ feet.

“What are we watching?” Sips asked, grabbing a tempura onion ring carefully with his chopsticks.

“Dunno. That car movie, the one with Nicolas Cage?” Smith shoveled a tangle of noodles into his mouth, swiping at the sauce on his chin with the back of his hand. 

“The one where he’s dead, or the one where he’s a car thief?” Sips tossed a wadded up napkin at Smith, who rolled his eyes and exaggeratedly cleaned his hands.

“Car thief,” said Smith, the words only slightly garbled by his mouthful of food.

Sips grunted an acknowledgement, and Smith started the movie. He settled back, twirling up another mouthful of noodles.

 

* * *

 

When the movie finished, Smith twisted with a discontented groan. Sips glanced down.

“Feeling sore?” He prodded Smith’s back with one foot, watching him fold forward to put his elbows on the carpet. Smith’s shirt rode up, and bunched between his shoulders.

“Uh huh.” Smith stretched, wincing a little as a joint popped with a loud crack. He glanced up at Sips, expression pitiful and pleading. “Will you rub my back?”

“Sure, Smiffy.”

Eager as a kid on Christmas morning, Smith scrambled to his feet. Sips shrugged at the take out mess. He could make Smith clean that up tomorrow. Sips carried his glass into the kitchen, rinsing it out and washing his hands. The kitchen was dim and quiet. Outside the night was still. If he turned off the light, he could see the stars. Sips stared for a moment, pleasantly tired. 

Smith was already stretched out on his stomach on Sips’ bed, reading on his phone. His bare feet crossed at the ankles, and he swung his legs back and forth.  

“Strip, you lazy animal, I’m not going to do that part for you.” On his way past, Sips ruffled his hair. Smith flashed him a mischievous grin as he shimmied out of his jeans and kicked them to the floor. Sips groaned, a bit theatrically. He found the bottle of massage oil in his bathroom cabinet, and carried it back into the bedroom.

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” Sips said, rubbing his hands together with a drop of oil. Smith’s answering grunt was muffled in the blanket. Sips straddled Smith’s thighs, leaning over him. Smith’s hair gleamed in the lamplight, dark against the pale blue of the bed. His phone rested on the edge of the bed, forgotten.

Sips worked his hands gently over Smith’s shoulders, gradually kneading deeper into the tight muscles of his back. He’d worked with a physical therapist for a bit before taking up coaching, and he knew all the right ways to press and cajole muscles into surrender. Coaching Smith one on one for so long also meant he knew exactly where Smith carried his tension.

From the shoulders he traced the muscles of Smith’s arms, taking special care with his forearms and the delicate joints of his wrists. Sips smiled to himself, listening to Smith’s soft noises. 

“How are your hands feeling?” he asked, his voice low. 

“Alright,” Smith mumbled.

“New tape helping?” Sips continued to rub gentle circles into Smith’s palm. 

“Yeah.” Smith had suffered from a whole winter of dry skin, and his hands especially. They’d cracked and bled often, the skin tearing from the pressure. Sips made him wear cotton gloves to bed, skin slathered in vaseline. It was better now, but they’d had to switch his tape too. The old one pulled too hard, leaving his skin raw and pink. 

“Good.” Sips massaged his arms, feeling the muscles soften as Smith relaxed.

 

* * *

 

If Smith could purr, he would. The steady pressure of Sips’ hands soothed him, and Smith drifted. His endless chain of thoughts faltered, and his tongue felt heavy. Easier to just lay there, let Sips move him about, listen to the stream of words about practice, about Nationals and the Olympic trials. Sips was good at rambling, just talking in his low, pleasant voice in a way that didn’t require a response. From time to time Smith grunted or made a sound of appreciation, rubbing his face into the blanket. Especially when Sips dug his fingers into the long muscles of his legs, working them into putty.

“Can you turn over for me, Smiffy?” Sips voice was close to his ear. Smith hummed, and half heartedly pushed at the mattress to roll over. Eyes closed, he listened to Sips shift on the bed. His hands rested briefly on Smith’s hips, tracing the bones with a touch so light it tickled. Smith cracked his eyes open, squinting even in the dim light.

“Your knee still bothering you?” Sips asked, lifting one of Smith’s legs and carefully bending the knee. He watched Smith carefully, looking for the twitch or grimace of pain.

“Mmm no.” Smith watched for a moment, eyelids heavy.  Sips carefully pushed and pulled at the leg he’d hurt a few months back, landing badly from a vault. Smith couldn’t decide if he loved or hated the vault. It was simultaneously fun and terrifying, every single time.

“Pay attention to it, I don’t want you to rip something in there.” Sips’ fingers tickled the back of his knee and Smith whined. With an amused snort, Sips leaned forward and brushed his hand over Smith’s cheek.

“Feeling better?” he asked softly.

Smith nodded. He almost couldn’t bring himself to move, just twitching his fingers closer to Sips. He was warm all over, like he’d just come out of a shower, and felt boneless. Blinking slowly, he watched Sips carefully stretch his leg back out and return it to the bed. Fingers brushed the inside of his thigh, and Smith parted his legs a little bit further to encourage the touch. He could see the beginnings of smile on Sips’ lips, the barest quirk up at the corner. 

“Did I miss anything?” asked Sips, his fingers squeezing the inside of Smith’s thigh. When Smith just whined again, he laughed aloud. “Come on, squirrel, use your words. Tell me what you want.”

“You know what I want,” groaned Smith.

“Nope.” Sips’ maddening grin mocked him.

“You skipped the best parts.”

“Did I?” Sips brushed a hand through the dark curls of hair at Smith’s groin. 

“Lower,” Smith pleaded. Arousal made him languid and reluctant to move. 

“Your dick need a massage, Smiffy?”

“Yeah,” Smith huffed. 

“Hmm.” Sips gave him a squeeze, and Smith let his eyes fall shut.

“Please,” Smith breathed, feeling his cock stiffen in Sips’ grip. 

“Hold that thought a second.” Sips got up, and Smith listened to his steps. A drawer rattled somewhere to the left of him. The mattress dipped again, and he could feel the warmth of Sips between his legs.

“Hips up,” Sips directed, tapping him with the vibrator. It was big and heavy, smooth silicone with a curved, bulbous end and a narrow neck. It even had a sort of hilt, flared out at the base just over the handle. Smith wiggled, sliding a pillow underneath himself. Anticipation curled in his stomach, a jittery thrill at odds with the heavy sense of relaxation suffusing his body.

“Guess we should massage the rest of you, only seems fair.” Sips squeezed lube onto the toy, making it shine. It buzzed quietly in his hand, and he held it close to Smith’s skin. 

The sound made him grit his teeth, and the first touch made Smith jump. But Sips rubbed a soothing hand over his stomach, drawing the vibrator over the juncture of his thigh and down against his balls. It was barely vibrating, a ticklish sensation.

“Sips, don’t tease me.”

“You want me to go a little higher then, hmm?”

“Yes.” Smith let his head roll to one side. His fingers splayed out over the bed.

Sips turned the setting up a notch higher, still stoking the vibrator over Smith’s skin. He touched it gently to the base of Smith’s cock, and Smith groaned. His fingers twitched as Sips ran it over his length, making his cock bob and stiffen further.

“That’s a good boy.” Sips dribbled a little more lube over the vibrator before placing it against Smith’s ass. Gently, he worked the tip inside of Smith. His free hand rested on Smith’s stomach, rubbing at the newly tense muscles. With agonizing slowness, he slid it deeper. 

“There you go, just relax into it.” Sips pressed his hand firmly down on Smith’s stomach as he guided the vibrator. “That’s it, take it all up in there. Good boy, Smiffy. You look so good like this, you know.”

Smith moaned, enjoying the sensation of fullness and the rhythmic pulse of the toy. His hands pulled at the bedding. Sips leaned forward, gently thrusting the vibrator into him. His lips brushed the tip of Smith’s cock.

“Please, oh god, fuck, please-” Smith’s voice cracked, and descended into a ragged moan as Sips sucked at his cock. His tongue swirled over the head, pushing gently at the slit. The hilt of the vibrator rested snugly against his skin. The pattern changed, long and short bursts that left him gasping. Smith closed his eyes, overwhelmed. The weight of Sips on his legs kept him anchored, gasping. The obliterating pleasure of his orgasm made Smith shake, and he groaned loudly. 

Sips switched off the vibrations. He kept his mouth on Smith’s cock until he started to soften, and carefully released him. They laid there for several long moments, Sips’ head resting on Smith’s stomach. The only sound, aside from the ever present hum of the ceiling fan, was Smith’s ragged breath slowing down. Sips rubbed his hand over Smith’s ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. 

When Sips pulled the toy out, Smith shuddered. Sips carried it back to the bathroom, cleaning it off and giving Smith a moment. Sometimes he needed that, just a couple minutes to put himself back together before he was capable of speech or able to bear being touched again. Sips glanced down at his fading erection, thinking that Smith was likely to fall asleep. That was fine. It wasn’t urgent. Odds were good that Smith would wake him up in the morning anyways with his hand or mouth, and Sips would enjoy it all the more.

Sips carried a towel back with him. While Smith cleaned himself up of the last traces of lube and semen, Sips changed into an old pair of boxers and a tshirt. 

“Here you go Smiffy.” He tossed a pair of Smith’s pajama pants at him, and took the towel back to the bathroom. 

When he finally returned to the bed, pausing only to turn off the lights, Smith curled easily into his arms. Sips sighed, pleasantly tired. He stroked Smith’s hair, enjoying the way he wrapped his long limbs around Sips. 

“Can we have pancakes tomorrow?” Smith asked, his voice thick and tired.

“It’s Sunday, so yeah. Pancakes all around.” Sips shifted, pulling the blanket up and tucking it round. “Blueberry pancakes even.”

Smith hummed and tucked his head against Sips’ chest. Sunday was their complete day off, usually the most relaxed day of the week. Smith especially enjoyed his day off from the routine of healthy food Sips mostly imposed, spending the day snacking on junk and lounging around in sweatpants. When the weather cooperated, they’d go swimming. Sometimes they just stayed in and played video games together, shouting at the television through rounds of Smash Brothers or Mario Kart. 

Yawning, Sips closed his eyes. Tucked into the blankets, Smith was already asleep, his breath slow and steady. Sips thought about blueberry pancakes, and drifted into sleep.


End file.
